


Beautiful Canvas

by JamOnToast



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Artist Reader, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:00:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29881503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JamOnToast/pseuds/JamOnToast
Summary: set after Revelations, Reader paints Spencer's back and shows him he's not alone.
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Reader
Kudos: 2





	Beautiful Canvas

**Author's Note:**

> also posted on my tumblr (pumpkin-stars)

You weren’t the most confident artist out there - there were so many people with such high levels of talent, such brilliant minds that could articulate their ideas in words or images… You were a small fry. A couple of posts on Instagram with a decent amount of likes, but nothing substantial. You weren’t sure if you were an artist, even. Painting was just a hobby… a way to unwind after a long day at the office…

Spencer, of course, argued that anyone who could put paint to paper or canvas or wherever, no matter their skill level, was an artist. And anyone who wrote anything down was a writer.

You loved his drawings, his silly little sketches and doodles… The odd, abstract-yet-recognisable self-portraits, the silly sketches of his team… You loved the way he drew you.

He said the same.

You’d painted him twice before. Once, before you’d properly met, when you’d seen him in the library which doubled as a cafe and tripled as a study spot for students at Georgetown. Abandoning your coursework, you’d started to sketch, had evidently stared at him for too long as he read through about five heavy tomes, and made him uncomfortable enough to lock eyes with you until you turned away in embarrassment.

In a move which you’d learn was quite out of character for him, he’d approached you. Stuttering ridiculously - on both sides of the conversation - he’d managed to compliment your drawing and offer to buy you a coffee.

The next week, you’d returned to find him in the same spot, eyes moving a mile a minute, and set the completed sketch - paint included - beside him, before getting on with your own work at a different table.

It had taken him over an hour to notice.

The second time you’d painted him was several months later when you’d been lost for inspiration one weekend. He happened to be free, and, at your request, had come round to your apartment, pile of books in tow, and the sight of him on your couch had struck the inspiration bone. It was almost Halloween, and he’d been wearing a green sock with pumpkins on and a blue sock with ghosts on, reading a collection of Poe’s short stories aloud, his voice wafting around you, easily heard over the quiet classical music on the radio.

You’d painted him as a skeleton - his bone structure certainly helped - curled up with a book, his own ghost reading over his shoulder.

He’d said he loved you once it was finished, and the canvas still hung in his home, pride of place.

But back to the present.

You’d been painting non-stop all week, having taken some time off work due to stress (not work-related, of course, HR couldn’t possibly believe that!). Spencer’s absence through the week, though his permission to coop yourself up in his apartment rather than your own, had proven beneficial to your muse. Something about him and his place, his things, his  _ home _ was able to get your creative juices flowing, and having free reign of his apartment had allowed a series of new paintings to flow from your brain and through your brush onto the canvas.

  1. His apartment at sunrise - the yellows and pinks highlighting shadows throughout the room in different shades.
  2. Piles of books - both your favourites stacked together (you were sure to replace them correctly on his shelves afterwards).
  3. His spare glasses - the way the fluorescent lamplight bounced off the lenses.
  4. An assorted collection of jumpers and cardigans - a study of colour and his quirkiness combined.
  5. A further three paintings that would just scream _Spencer_ to anyone who knew him, and _someone loved_ to those who didn’t.



When he came through the door on the sixth day, tired and worn out, he’d been surprised that you were there. Happily surprised, mind you, but he still had that ‘deer in the headlights’ look about him. From your position on the floor, book in your lap as you leant against the couch, you smiled up at him. His noncommittal grunt as you asked how he was prompted you to stand.

“I can go-“ you suggested gently, something about his body language suggesting that he wanted to be alone.

“No.” He stopped that thought - his mind, though weary, knew he needed you there. “Shouldn’t be alone.”

“Okay.” You smiled, taking his hand and gently tugging him to the couch, where he sunk into the cushions. “Water?”

“Please.” He nodded, eyes half-shut. “You’ve been busy.”

“Yeah.” You laughed from the kitchen “I uh, I guess there’s a lot about you that my brain likes.”

“Just your brain?” He mumbled, thanking you with a smile as you handed him the glass. He took a sip, “I missed you.”

“Missed you too, Spence.” You sat beside him. “Rough case?”

A bitter laugh fell from his lips.

“Spencer?”

He took a shaky breath. “I almost died.”

“What?” You stared at him, taking his hand, reassuring the both of you that you were there.

“I did, actually.” He continued, eyes still closed. “Die, that is.”

“Spencer, what-?”

“I was kidnapped,” he finally opened his eyes, staring at you. “The unsub, he… he took me and I…” He whimpered, “I thought I’d never see you again, and you’d be… You wouldn’t know…”

“It’s okay, Spence.” You assured him, “You’re safe now.”

He nodded, “I know.” He squeezed your hand, “I’m so glad you’re here, love.”

“There’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

He smiled, then pulled you to him, kissing you gently. “Talk me through the paintings?”

“Sure.” You agreed.

~~~

Later, when you both woke up on the couch, muscles sore from the weird half-sitting, half-cuddled position, the room was bathed in a purple-y light. The curtains had been left open, and the clock on the wall told you that it was around 3am, and the early morning light provided a calming atmosphere for the both of you.

His hair was a mess, falling into his eyes as he watched you, inspiration hitting you again.

“I don’t have another canvas…” you whispered, something about the light making you want to keep quiet.

“What do you want to paint?” He whispered back.

Brushing his hair back, you said “a forest.”

“A forest?”

“Your hair reminded me of branches.”

He giggled - actually giggled. “I love your brain.”

You grinned, “I love yours.” Kissing him quickly, you pulled back, observing the rest of the room. “Can… Can I try something?”

“What?”

You bit your lip, “Can I… paint you?”

He grinned, “Yeah. But you don’t have a canvas.”

Blushing, you shook your head, “No, I mean… can I paint  _ on _ you?”

He tensed. “On me?”

“A purple forest… on your back?”

He swallowed hard, gulped nervously, “I… are you sure, I-“

“I don’t have to.” You excused, “I just… you’re so beautiful…”

“I’m not.” He countered, “I… I’m all bruised and beaten, I’m-“

“Spence, love…” you cupped his cheek, “I don’t care if you’re battered and broken, I… Everything about you is breathtaking. You’ve inspired so much of my art, I just…”

“Okay.” He agreed softly, “You can paint me.”

Your lips met in another soft kiss, then you pulled away, letting him sink to the floor, slowly unbuttoning his shirt.

You turned away, never having seen that much of him before - of  _ anyone _ except yourself - and busied yourself collecting your paints together.

“There’s an old sheet in the cupboard in the bedroom.” Spencer suggested, “keep the floor clean.”

“Okay.” You risked a glance at him, catching sight of a nipple before you rushed to his room, face burning.

When you returned, you threw the sheet towards him, letting him make himself comfortable, a pillow beneath his head, three books in arms reach. You flicked the nearest lamp on, illuminating just enough of the room for you to work unhindered, then grabbed him a fresh glass of water.

As you set it down, your eyes scanned over his back, “Oh, Spence…”

“Is it bad?” He wondered, eyes falling shut.

“I won’t need much of a purple base coat.” You winced, biting your lip. “Let me know if I hurt you.”

“Okay.”

You paused then, realising you were about to straddle him. “Spencer?”

“Mmm?”

“This is okay, right?” You lowered yourself, knees either side of his hips, keeping all your weight off him.

“S’nice.” He assured you, “You’re warm.”

Nervously, you trailed a hand across his back, mindful of the bruises that littered your canvas, his skin mottled and darkened by hands far rougher than your own.

“Sit.” He whispered, “You won’t hurt me.”

“What if I do?”

“Then I trust you’ll stop if I ask.” He shifted beneath you, looking over his shoulder, “I love you.”

“Love you too,” you smiled, picking up a brush. “Maybe you should sleep.”

“Mmm.” He grunted, setting his head on the cushion.

~~~

The lighting had changed a lot in the time it took you to finish painting him, your leg muscles cramped, and his back coated in different purple hues, much kinder than those they covered up.

Spencer had fallen asleep just minutes after you’d started, and his soft, contented noises allowed you the knowledge that you weren’t hurting him.

As you stood up, you almost fell on top of him but steadied yourself with a hand on the table, and pushed yourself onto the couch, grabbing your phone to take pictures of your artwork (and some of his sleeping face).

He woke a moment later, having felt the shifting weight above him. Blinking up at you blearily, he asked “Done?”

“Yeah.” You nodded, showing him the photos with a small smile.

“You made me beautiful, love.” He grinned.

“You already were.”


End file.
